


Ground Rules

by redscout



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Misgendering, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 16:17:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14877173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscout/pseuds/redscout
Summary: Sam takes up the job of gardening for the first time and learns a sort of secret in the process.





	Ground Rules

**Author's Note:**

> aka frodo is trans and nobody lets sam say more than a few words at a time  
> disclaimer: im a trans writer. i write things about being trans because i am trans. thank you.  
> the misgendering takes place both within dialogue and (primarily) within narration, as it is from sam’s point of view  
> since the original series is gone this is now just a standalone piece written mostly for myself. enjoy

Today was the first day Sam had walked up the Hill to Bag End since the summer of the previous year, in which he had apprenticed under his Gaffer for a short few months and grown to love the garden. He was told he couldn’t take the actual _job_ from Hamfast until he’d turned fourteen, and though it saddened him to wait, wait he had. It was May now, the weekend after the end of his eighth year of school, and Sam stood on Bag End’s front porch, hesitating to knock.

He hadn’t spoken to Mr. Bilbo Baggins since the year he’d been there last. Bilbo was hardly ever out of his life; he and Sam’s Gaffer were close, closer than gardener and master were usually (though Gaffer didn’t take all too well to Bilbo trying to teach Sam different languages). Sam himself appreciated the connection for as long as it had lasted through his childhood, but in the past few months, Bilbo was hardly seen; not because he’d gone away, as he often did in the summertime, but because of this supposed _heir_ he’d picked up from _Buckland_.

All Sam had gleaned from his trips to the pub with his father and the chatter that took place at the bar there (that he was _definitely_ not within earshot for) was that his name was Frodo, and his parents had drowned in an accident some years prior. Ted Sandyman called him an _oddball_ , in that strange, cold way of his, but Sam never supposed anything bad of that; he had interesting and unending opinions about Bilbo, too, and Sam had always found Mr. Bilbo to be an outstanding and kind gentleman.

He wondered absently if that Frodo was anything like him as he raised a fist to knock, hesitating once more. Bilbo wouldn’t ask him for papers or anything of the sort, of course, as the Gamgees gardening for Bag End was a tradition stretching years back. And still, he couldn’t help but feel as if he was disturbing its inhabitants, and Bilbo’s recent absence did nothing to assuage such fears. Yet, Sam was a determined lad, and at last found the strength to strike the door thrice with his knuckles.

There was silence for a time; then a yell, muffled and unintelligible, and a moment later, the short patterings of bare feet until at last the door opened, and Sam was greeted by a very pretty lass he’d never seen before in his life. Her face wore a pointed calmness, confidence plain as day in her sharp eyes. Sam found himself blushing, and somewhat dumb-founded, for as far as he knew Bag End had never had no _girl_ living in it. Though the Baggins lineage was long. Perhaps family from around the rest of Shire was visiting, or—

“Hello?” the girl snapped, stirring Sam from his thoughts. “Who are you?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, I—!“ 

Realization seemed to dawn before Sam could even finish, and she interrupted him to exclaim, “Wait. You’re the gardener, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Sam beamed suddenly, though quickly defected. “Er... well, _new_ gardener, rather. My gaffer was the gardener here for a long time.”

“That’s alright,” she said, and then held out a hand. “I’m Frodo, if you should know.” Sam felt his entire being freeze over with anxiety as... _his_ words sunk in. Frodo Baggins, a new master of Bag End that Sam would likely be serving for many years to come, and his first day at work he’d gone and mistaken him for a girl. He was hardly ever impolite on purpose, but he suddenly felt very, very rude, and very, very out of place, and, had he not been frozen with shock, may have turned tail and ran right on back to Number 3. Frodo merely looked confused at his silence; this entire exchange had gone on inside Sam’s head, of course, so he quickly— whenever he managed to gain his bearings again— grasped his outstretched hand and shook it eagerly to relieve himself of such a monumental blunder.

“Sorry— Samwise. Er. Sam. Just Sam is fine. I’m sorry.” Frodo stared at him harder as apologies tumbled out of his mouth.

“That’s... alright,” he said, and released Sam’s hand. “You can come in, if you’d like. I’m sure Bilbo wants to speak with you.”

Sam stepped inside Bag End now with an air of dread; he was still feeling the effects of his mistake and felt very sure Mr. Frodo now thought of him as a total weirdo he would want nothing to do with. Talking to Bilbo would surely do to calm his thoughts, but in the mean time, Frodo moved ahead of him into the parlor, short and languid in his movements. Sam still found his prominent beauty unusual, and yet brushed it aside.

Bilbo was seated on the couch in the parlor with a book in hand when the boys entered, and Frodo flew hastily to his side, nudging him out of his read. When he glanced up and spotted Sam, his face lit, and he made a move to stand.

“Oh, hullo, Sam!” he exclaimed, and approached as if he intended to give the boy a hug. “Very glad you were true to your word; your Gaffer’s getting old, so you stay kind to him.”

“Ah, Mr. Bilbo,” was all Sam said, flustered as he was pulled into the arms of his _master_. He was thankful, at least, that the Bagginses were friendly; some of the other families they gardened for did not share a similar sentiment, from what Sam had seen.

“I see you’ve already met my dear nephew. Frodo, my lad, would you fetch tea?” Bilbo called when he had released Sam, and Frodo— with a short, bored huff— swept out of the room to the kitchen. Bilbo took his place upon the couch once more, and motioned for Sam to join him. Sam felt alien as he sat upon the sofa, even though he’d been in the exact same position many times before. Something about this time felt entirely unfamiliar, and Bilbo clearly sensed it.

“I told you this first day would be talking business, and you’d get to the brunt of it tomorrow,” he said, which Sam had heard before, “but don’t think I don’t see a _look_ twisted into your features, Mr. Gamgee.”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Sam stammered, looking at his hands in his lap.

“Very much like your father, you know,” Bilbo continued, reaching for his pipe on an end table nearby. “Your expression betrays you. Something’s on your mind, boy, don’t play me for a fool.”

“I suppose it’s just... first day jitters, is all,” Sam lied, and Bilbo squinted, but seemed to accept this answer, leaning back and lighting the tobacco slowly. Sam sat still, and it was silent, up until Frodo returned with a tray of three mugs, the kettle, and two bowls for sugars and milk.

“Very nice, thank you, Frodo,” Bilbo praised as Frodo took a seat in an adjacent arm chair, unmoved by the words.

“I’ll get that in the future, sir,” Sam mumbled to nobody in particular. Frodo’s eyes were on the book next to Bilbo, however, and Sam thanked his lucky stars.

“Anyway, then, onto business,” Bilbo began. “Please, have tea, we don’t make it for nothing. You know the hours and the days and the hours for the days, correct?”

“Yessir,” Sam affirmed, taking a mug and letting it rest between his digits. 

“Your father had a system for the order of things, though I suspect you’ll very much do what _you_ find is in your best interest to do,” Bilbo said, taking a thoughtful sip of his tea.

“Yessir,” Sam repeated. He felt much more at ease now; talking about gardening was a surefire cure to any misgivings about any situation.

“Though,” Bilbo paused, his eyebrows furrowing. “You’re underage, so I can’t work you to the bone. Take the normal hours and shave three off per day.”

“Three?” Sam sputtered. “But that’s hardly—“

“Frodo can pick up the slack if there is any. It’s illegal to work you more than 40 hours a week.” Frodo sat with his hands crossed in his lap, watching his uncle with those sharp eyes, and Sam swallowed.

“Well... what if I worked six days instead of seven, sir? A-and six hours on all those days?” Bilbo seemed to think on this question for a short moment, before nodding.

“Yes, fine, fine. Sunday is your day off, then.” He paused again to take another drink of his tea. “Though rest assured I _will_ work you to the bone the moment you turn 18.”

“Good ‘n’ fine, Mr. Bilbo, that is my purpose bein’ here and all,” he said with a smile, and Bilbo returned with a wry grin of his own.

“Good. Extra good to know you _are_ a Gamgee. Give your Gaffer my regards when you go back down the Hill.”

“Yessir, I will,” Sam said, and stood to leave, though Frodo stopped him.

“You haven’t even finished your tea yet, Sam.”

“Well... I thanks you both, but I should be goin’. Gammer might need my help with lunch and the likes,” Sam conceded, humbly. Bilbo waved him off.

“He can take the mug, so long as he washes it and gives it back to us,” Bilbo said with a light laugh, though it was clearly a serious suggestion. Frodo seemed satisfied with the proposal and sat back with his own tea.

“I thanks you very much, Mr. Bilbo.” Sam nodded at him, and turned his eyes back onto Frodo. “And it was nice to meet you, Miss—“

The mistake was clear as day the moment it left his mouth, and a heavy, puzzled silence settled on the room. Sam shook in his place for a moment, as baffled as anyone else. It had just sort of slipped out, instinctually. Bilbo wore a placid expression, his eyebrows furrowed in the direction of his nephew, and Frodo himself went from looking anguished to tired in a moment’s notice. Sam would have very well ran, if it weren’t for his own good manners keeping him in place.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he finally choked out.

“It’s fine,” Frodo said flatly.

“Mr. Frodo, I don’t mean nothin’ by it—“

“It’s _fine,_ Sam,” he repeated, sharper now.

“You just—“

“I _know_ ,” Frodo groused loudly, now with the intent of shutting Sam up. “It’s fine. It happens all the time. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam squeaked out one last time.

“Please stop apologizing,” Frodo said, almost laughingly, looking back at his uncle for clarity.

“He’s trans,” Bilbo said simply, and Frodo’s shoulders clenched.

“ _Uncle!_ ” he snapped, and Sam stood on looking very bewildered.

“What?” Bilbo deflected his nephew’s sudden anger with a pointed look. “He’s going to be around a lot more, he might as well know.”

“Yeah, but—“

“The Gaffer knows.”

“Well...” Frodo trailed off, unable to find a good point to make, and sat straight, clearly embarrassed. “That’s different.”

“No it isn’t,” Bilbo said.

“Sirs, be beggin’ your pardon,” Sam interrupted, quietly, “but I don’t know what that is.” The Bagginses looked at him for a short moment, until Bilbo turned his eyes onto Frodo expectantly. Frodo gave a sigh, and his eyes turned from Bilbo to Sam emphatically.

“Transgender,” Frodo finally said, stiff. “It’s... your gender doesn’t really match up with your sex.”

“But,” Sam started, fully honest, and confused, “I thought that was—“

“They’re not the same thing,” he interjected quickly. “Look, we can talk about this later. I need to have a word with my uncle.” Bilbo was once again staring at his book in deep thought, innocent, and Sam’s hands twitched at his side.

“I really am sorry, Mr. Frodo, honest,” he said, slowly, but Frodo was barely looking at him anymore, waving him off.

“I know. It’s okay. Go on home, Sam.” And Sam did not need to be told twice, fleeing from Bag End with a mug of tea in hand, the calm discussion about _privacy_ of the Bagginses fading behind him.

\---

“...They’re two separate things,” Frodo concluded, “and I know I’m a boy just as you know you’re a boy.” Sam stared on for a moment, his hands resting in his lap thoughtfully. They sat on a bench in the garden, and though Mr. Frodo’s face wore strain, he was cooler now, merely serious with his intent.

“I suppose that makes sense,” Sam muttered after a time.

“It ought to,” Frodo said.

“I am—“

“Please don’t say sorry,” Frodo lamented, sitting straighter. “They always do that. It’s annoying. Just correct yourself and move on, there’s no need to make an event of it.”

“Alright then, Mr. Frodo,” Sam stammered, determined to listen despite his apologetic nature. “Though I will be more careful in the future.”

“That’s fine.”

“Can I ask a question, though?” Sam continued, softer, and Frodo’s face remained the same sort of pointed placidity it had been for the whole conversation. 

“Depends.”

“Regarding, um, this, and Mr. Bilbo.” Frodo didn’t stop him after a short pause, so he continued. “Why did it seem like such a bad thing that Mr. Bilbo told me? It doesn’t seem all that odd once you know the ins and outs. Just... different, I suppose.” Frodo’s eyes remained on him a time longer before dropping to the ground, his expression tired.

“Aside from it being _my_ information to share... it’s mostly just a hassle to explain. I don’t see why I have to argue in favor of my existence when nobody else does.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, sincerely, and Frodo looked back at him, though he didn’t look angry.

“It’s alright. It’s how things are. And it is different,” he confessed. “Little known and highly judged. And I can’t blame you for not being educated.”

“Highly judged?” Sam asked.

“You know how folk are in Hobbiton.” Frodo paused, giving a wave of his hand. “It’s _too_ different for them.”

“Ah,” said Sam.

“If Bilbo and I weren’t regarded so highly, I’d probably get a lot _more_ whispers said about me,” he said gravely. “That’s fine, though. Buckland was worse, I think.”

“Really!” Sam exclaimed. “It’s ‘cause they’re river folk over there, I tells you.” Frodo looked back at him again, a smile upon his lips, and Sam felt something tug in the pit of his stomach. 

“They’re not all bad. A group of kooks by all means, but not the worst.” Sam was about to retort again on the nature of the people from Buckland— for he did have _very_ strong opinions— but Frodo stopped him with a hand. “Mind me, but the sun says you’ve been on the clock for an hour, and have spent that entire hour gabbing with me.”

“Oh, heavens,” Sam cried, and stood suddenly, and Frodo laughed.

“Go on, then, Sam. I’ll be around.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Frodo,” Sam sputtered, and went off on his way to get his tools in an instant, Frodo’s smile still in the back of his mind.


End file.
